Books, glorious books. Sometimes they have this way of showing up at just the right time, don’t they? In the middle of the questions, the transitions, the uncertainties, a book can often be the gentle hand on your back, guiding you toward the clarity and peace you didn’t even know you needed. That’s why in each issue of InHabit Magazine, we’ll share an excerpt from a book (or two) that we believe has the potential to expand how we think, feel, and move through midlife.

This month, I’ve chosen The Way Home by Ben Katt. Ben’s story is a reminder that even when we’re busy helping others, we can easily lose ourselves. He’s spent years walking alongside people facing the hardest circumstances—homelessness, addiction, trauma—and yet, like so many of us, he realized he was disconnected from his own heart. His voice, enhanced by his work and reflections on the On Being podcast, is one you can trust. It’s honest, it’s real, and it speaks right to the heart of what it means to come home to yourself.

This is fitting for our Beginnings issue as it’s about the courage to start over, to leave behind what no longer serves, and to step into the new. I hope Ben’s words move you the way they’ve moved me.

Here’s to finding your way home.

Peter, Founder of InHabit Life
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“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian 

‍Change of environment

I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead. 

New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes. 

This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious:  What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.

Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.

This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt  - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.

‍Letting change flow

Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.

My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.

Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.

As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change. 

After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though. 

‍Chrono-diversity

It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes, 

“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”

I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone. 

I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…

I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.” 

When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.  

Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.

During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski. 

Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes, 

‍“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.” 

I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.

So what is this way?

                It is an old way that many others before you from across culture, place, and time have traveled. It is a pattern that includes three movements:

                        Leaving the familiar.

                        Falling into the unknown.

                        Rising to wholeness.

                Phase one consists of the process of leaving the familiarity of the false version of yourself that you’ve settled for, whether it be achiever, perfectionist, people-pleaser, victim, control freak, antagonist, escapist, or any other unhealthy, limiting attachment. This is your Impostor identity, and whatever form it has taken, it becomes apparent that it no longer fits. This first phase represents the initial interruption, unraveling, and separation from life as you’ve known it.

                Phase two involves falling into the unknown. Unable to depend on the former version of yourself and the world you had constructed, you become vulnerable, confused, and lost. This phase involves a series of confrontations as you must undergo the death of who you thought you were in the struggle to reclaim your heart.

                Phase three is the task of rising to wholeness, to your real self. You’ve recovered your heart, but now you must meet the challenges that come with reintegration into the world of everyday life, relationships, and work. You are reborn—and grateful for it—but need to figure out your new place in the world.

                During a six-year period of my life, beginning with that If you don’t have your heart, you have nothing moment, I traveled on this way. But I didn’t discover or invent it. It is an adventure that humans have been embarking on for a long time. Joseph Campbell, the twentieth-century mythologist, was an investigator of this way. In his work The Hero with a Thousand Faces and beyond, he looked at myths, sacred texts, folklore, and fairy tales from across cultures and religions and saw a common quest in all these diverse stories, a single story appearing across time and place. He famously called this universal way home to wholeness “The Hero’s Journey.”

                Whether or not you’ve ever heard of it, you already know this pattern. You’ve seen it running through old sacred stories and spiritual schools, modern movies and books, and the real life of anyone you’ve ever met who is living their fullest life. The details are different, but it is the same story. While the journey for each character, real or imagined, features distinct guides, particular challenges, and unique twists and turns, each iteration always expresses the same foundational pattern: Leaving, Falling, Rising.

                It is the biblical and musical story of Joseph and his amazing technicolor dreamcoat. He is betrayed by his jealous brothers and sold into slavery. But then he rises to power where he uses his wisdom to save Egypt and his brothers from famine.

                It is the historical story of Francesco, son of a wealthy merchant, at the beginning of the thirteenth century. His self-indulgent lifestyle is interrupted by visions that lead him to forsake riches. He answers a call to care for the poor and sick, becoming the compassionate one known as St. Francis of Assisi.

                It is the fictional story of the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s T’Challa, a man who must confront dark family secrets and face his rivals. He evades death with the magical heart-shaped herb, and becomes the worthy Black Panther, King of Wakanda.

                It is the true story of my friend Neil, who emerges from a battle with cancer with the courage to end a deteriorating marriage, release his attachment to his identity as a successful doctor, and embrace his calling to creative expression.

                This single storyline will run through your life too, if you let it. That is, if you are looking to find your way home. 

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From The Way Home, by Ben Katt. Copyright © 2024 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group